


the voice under all silences

by repurposed



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autistic Character(s), Fantasy, Getting Together, M/M, Magic Realism, Original Character(s), mlm author, trans male character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/repurposed/pseuds/repurposed
Summary: “Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star...”― E.E. Cummings(Diarmuid's method of conducting conversations requires a very special person to understand it, or even tolerate it. When he finds that person, it's hard not to get attached.)





	the voice under all silences

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission from my friend Gira, whose blog for Marty can be found at muetprodige.tumblr.com! The request was for a 4,000-word getting-together fic of Marty and my OC Diarmuid (nightmcnsters.tumblr.com). 
> 
> My commission information can be found on my personal blog, revivalish.tumblr.com.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid subverts a panic attack and learns how many birdhouses one can reasonably carry by hand at the same time. (It's a lot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post this in two sections; the next one should be up shortly! Thank you for commissioning me, dude :>

A fact: Diarmuid is not an articulate person. 

He is not a person one can easily strike up a conversation, or really any sort of interaction with, regardless of his bleeding heart and sympathetic nature - his _empathy_ fails him time and time again, even when his emotions are nudging at him to speak with someone. Even when he's eased into a more relaxed state of mind via discussion of birds or flowers, or another topic dear to his heart, he's prone to cutting straight to the most basic interpretation of what he wants to say, trusting whoever's on the other side of the conversation to interpret the subtleties of his meaning _somehow_ , by his face (expressive only in very specific turns) or his tone (largely nonexistent, or at least nearly impossible to decipher, unless he's taken to teasing somebody). Another fact: this is hypocritical of him in the _extreme_ , or it would be if he were able to elect to behave any differently. He's incapable of performing the same mental and emotional gymnastics that are required of other people if they want to understand the whole of what he's saying, and this, naturally, has led to his conversations being rare, brief, and relevant. 

He's not expecting things to conduct themselves in any way out of the ordinary when he quite accidentally begins a conversation with someone during his occasional and dreaded run to the nearest shopping area. He's got an armful of assorted pants, the one brand of T-shirts that doesn't make him want to scream, and contraptions for housing birds that he'd thought were lovely and innovative, and he's trying to maneuver his way through the crowd (small, but far too loud and close for Diarmuid's comfort) as quickly as possible, head down and eyes avoiding meeting anyone else's face. As he's fishing heavily glamoured leaves out of the pocket of his cardigan, his attention is caught by a sharp, clear sound that's almost _familiar_ in its inarticulacy - it's a sound Diarmuid has made time and time again upon coming home from a trip just like this one and needing to let out the stress that had built up. The loud vocalizations continue, and his eyes are drawn to the person they're coming from, a _very small_ person with some sort of stuffed toy clutched to their chest, who's seated on a bench outside the restrooms, having what looks to be a breakdown of a sort.

Diarmuid is always, _always_ wary of involving himself too deeply in the lives and problems of other people, but this - this is all too similar to a situation he's been in himself, and he remembers with nauseating clarity _exactly_ what it feels like, being so full of light and sound and sensation and emotion that it can't be repressed or even filtered. And so, with the air of a man walking farther into a blazing house fire to retrieve the one singular object that's worth the effort, Diarmuid veers off course and towards the person, holding himself in the least threatening position he can manage and making a very sincere effort to minimize his height, which positively dwarfs them, especially when they're so curled in on themself and he's standing up straight. He perches cautiously on the other side of the bench, feeling awkward and cumbersome with his armful of seemingly incongruous items, and tilts his head at them, praying to whatever forces direct events of this sort that speech won't be necessary.

Once they register his presence and the cautious, questioning _look_ he's giving them, they wipe a forearm across their eyes, not that it makes overly much of a difference in the crying-induced blotchiness of their face, and shakily produce a slim black object from the side of them opposite to where Diarmuid's sitting. He thinks back across his memories of the various technological advancements he's become aware of over the years, and all the information that he can dredge up from his mind is _typing, that’s a thing, they’re writing but not writing_.

The person makes an effort to type something on the device once, then twice, then seems to give up out of sheer frustration, making an irritated noise and pressing the stuffed toy (which looks to Diarmuid like… some kind of lizard, perhaps?) to their face with their free arm. Without knowing exactly what he’s trying to do or why, only operating on some vaguely hopeful sense that it’s the right thing to do in this situation, he clumsily deposits his purchases on the floor in front of the bench, conscious that it’s more than likely improper for him to do so, but more focused on the task at hand than whether or not he’s breaking a societal custom.

Feeling foolish, but now committed to the course of action he’s embarked on, he undoes the three buttons of his loose cardigan and shrugs it off his shoulders, reaching cautiously over to the stranger and holding it out as if it’s a peace offering. When they make no move to reject its presence in their personal space, he drapes it over their shoulders, tucking it around them the way he remembers Nai tucking a heavy blanket around him when he got similarly upset and unresponsive in his childhood (a practice he continues to this day, replacing the blanket, now too worn to be useful for such a purpose, with articles of clothing). Their shuddering gradually comes to a stop, reminding Diarmuid of the way a fox relaxes when it curls up beside another fox in the bitter cold.

The cardigan he's used is a very, very _old_ thing, even by Diarmuid's singular standards of what counts as _old_ , something that was not purchased at a store but made for him by a kindly old woman who'd worked with Nai all her life, and had seen fit to give something to his child as an acknowledgement of all his help, having correctly estimated that Nai derived far more joy from things that made Diarmuid happy than from any other sort of gift or offering directed exclusively towards him. It's been carefully repaired over and over again by Diarmuid's meticulous hands, and it shows, but the person doesn't seem to have any objection to the visible years on it, instead becoming noticeably calmer and taking the initiative to pull it in closer around themself. Diarmuid feels a pervasive sense of _relief_ at having apparently done the right thing, and he sits patiently next to them, less concerned about their well-being now and more focused on waiting until he can retrieve his cardigan from them again.

After a space of several seconds, or perhaps minutes, has passed, with Diarmuid beginning to fiddle aimlessly with the braided cloth band around his wrist so as to have something to _do_ other than sit still and think about the many unforeseen uses of his cardigan, the stranger opens up the device on their lap again with steadier hands, beginning to type something into it. The click-clacking sound of their doing so is _odd_ , and it startles Diarmuid for a moment, but then it stops and they turn the device towards him, gesturing for him to look at what they've written. He has to lean forwards to see it clearly, and he shapes the words silently with his mouth as he reads - he _can_ understand the modern variations of English quite fluently, but he _so_ prefers any form of Gaelic to any other language on the face of the Earth that it takes him considerably more substantial of an effort to make himself focus on it and process it with any real effectiveness.

 _'Thank you for the cardigan. It's very much appreciated. I apologize if I've worried you in any way_.' Diarmuid shrugs, an unspoken admission that it wasn't any trouble on his part. ( _Difficult_ , yes, but he wouldn't put it in the category of things he considers _troublesome_. It had simply needed doing, regardless of the effort it took for whoever was around to do it.)

 _'My_ _name_ _is_ _Marty_ _Garcia_.' Diarmuid gives a slow, barely-present nod, considering the name and the way it sounds. Perhaps he takes such things rather more seriously than is really warranted in this day and age, but he's spent most of his life in a world where names are precious, potentially dangerous in some cases, and _always_ of great value. The stranger - _Marty_ \- then retrieves the stuffed toy from where they'd set it down in favor of typing, and holds it up for Diarmuid to see. 

 _'This_ _is_ _Dino_ _Buddy._   _They_ _are_ _also_ _quite_ _grateful_ _for_ _your_ _help,_   _and_ _they'd_ _like_ _to_   _say_   _thank_ _you.'_  Diarmuid feels the corners of his mouth twitch slightly upward at that - he isn't entirely sure what a 'Dino' is, but he thinks Dino Buddy is delightful, and he hopes that response is somehow managing to come across the way he wants it to.

They end up sitting on the bench together for far longer than Diarmuid had ever intended to, and he becomes so engrossed in conversation - of a sort - that he forgets _completely_ about his main objective, which was to reclaim his cardigan once it was no longer necessary. He learns several things during the course of this interaction - one, that the stranger named Marty is also a man, and two, that there is apparently a label being used in the modern age to illustrate people who can become overwhelmed in this way. He forgets it almost immediately after Marty tells him what it is - things he reads don't tend to stick around for an overly long time, let alone things he reads in _English_ after a somewhat stressful event - but he feels... strange about it, in a way that he can't quite place. It seems as if it has an air of being a _disease_ , almost, which Diarmuid can vouch is most certainly not the case at all, and he gets the feeling Marty is in agreement with him on this topic, despite having only just met him.

There are _many_ remarkable things about this conversation, but the one that stands out the _most_ , at least in Diarmuid's mind, is that he never speaks a word out loud, and neither does Marty. He has the rare and strange feeling that he'd be more than able to vocalize if it were absolutely _necessary_ , that's how comfortable he is, but he doesn't feel that he _has_ to, or that it would contribute anything more to the conversation than is already being contributed.

Diarmuid, of course, doesn't mean to get so invested, but he finds himself listening - reading, rather - intently as Marty types seemingly endless paragraphs about his interests - the question of Dino Buddy's species is answered in full, extensive detail without Diarmuid ever having to ask it, and he's just... _enjoying_ this, to a degree that he hadn't anticipated. Marty's stream-of-consciousness style of communication _works_ for him in a delightfully unexpected way - there's none of the usual awkward pausing as whoever he's talking to waits for Diarmuid to understand a reference or a vague, subtle hint; Marty just tells him the most incredible amounts of information without skipping over anything or waiting for a certain response. 

By the time the conversation winds to something that could, through some theoretical loophole, probably be termed something like a stop, Diarmuid notices that considerably fewer people are milling about in their vicinity, and taps briefly on Marty's tablet to alert him to this fact.

 _Oh my, it_ is _getting quite late. I'm sorry to have kept you for so long, but I very much appreciate the company_ , he types out. Diarmuid doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't respond, instead just folding his arms around himself, looking thoughtful and pleased. Suddenly, he realizes that he's lacking the cardigan pockets that his hands normally go into when he adopts this position, and the uncomfortable surprise must show on his face, because he finds the cardigan deposited on his lap, and then hears the clicking of Marty's keyboard once again.

 _I know I've already expressed my appreciation, but I have to tell you I'm honored and grateful for the cardigan. Certain articles of clothing are crucially important to me as well, and I know from experience that it can be difficult to go without them, even for a few minutes_.

Diarmuid finishes shrugging the cardigan back on, and, with his hands once more planted firmly in the pockets where they belong, makes an acknowledging movement with his shoulders and glances at Marty what hopefully comes across as a thankful expression. When he realizes he'll have to take his hands back out to scoop up his purchases, which he's just now remembered the existence and necessity of, he wrinkles his nose in obvious distaste, earning a bright, amused sound from Marty, who tucks his tablet under one arm and reaches out to carry two of Diarmuid's birdhouses with the other, which Diarmuid would protest if not for the fact that it would actually be unfeasible for him to carry them all back to the church in one trip. This line of thought brings him back to his original intention for the birdhouses - he wants to make them something of a larger complex, giving both his social birds and those that require a bit of privacy somewhere new and hopefully comfortable to roost.

"'M gonna..." He isn't aware that he's speaking out loud at first, and it takes him a very long moment to find the proper English word for what he means to say - " _modify_ them." Marty precariously shifts his grip to unlock the tablet, and after a few seconds of tapping, Diarmuid is startled to hear a vaguely mechanical-sounding voice say "That sounds delightful!"

Marty must pick up on his confusion, because he goes back to tapping, and then the voice speaks up again - "This tablet reads what I've written out loud when it's inconvenient to have the other person look at the screen. I hope it doesn't bother you." Diarmuid shakes his head hastily - it doesn't bother him in the slightest, he actually thinks it's wonderful. It brings his mind back to the days of leaving little notes scattered all throughout the house in the glade for Nai to read, and when Aoife would read them all out loud in the event that she had time to spare, doing it over and over until a small Diarmuid concluded that she'd gotten the tone he'd meant to convey in his writing.

He follows Marty out of the building and out the side opposite to the one he'd initially come through - it must be, he realizes, where people keep their vehicles when they're not currently using them for transport. He hasn't spent enough time paying attention to areas like this one to know what they're called, but he's always wondered about that, and it's oddly satisfying to have his curiosity sated in regards to it. 

Marty sets down his own, smaller plastic bag of purchases in the backseat of his vehicle, and sits down sideways in the driver's seat momentarily, so as to have easier access to his tablet. "It was lovely meeting you, and thank you again for your assistance," comes the automated voice. "I can't believe I haven't asked you for your name yet! If you're comfortable telling me, that is." Diarmuid thinks for a moment, and then another moment - Marty had been, he thought, exceptionally gracious in telling Diarmuid his _ow_ n name. He couldn't pick up on the level of truth in a name and other such things to the degree that the more... _purebred_ sorts of magical folk could, for lack of a better term - Nai had jokingly (and somewhat _derisively_ at times) referred to them as the 'original flavor'.

Diarmuid hadn't understood the joke, but he knows it means he's lacking in certain areas, certain _senses_ \- and if he's honest, he's never regretted the lack. He had no desire to hold power over someone who hadn't voluntarily given it to him, nor even someone who _had_ , if it was up to him. So names didn't hold quite the same level of importance for him that they did for others, although, in the beginning of what could be termed the modern age, he'd still spent a _long_ while being utterly shocked when non-magical folk began tossing their names about willy-nilly, with no concern for the possible danger.

Despite his comfort in present company, Diarmuid feels a sudden, sharp drop in his energy - he hadn't planned for such a complex diversion from his usual route, and going into town had always rendered him exhausted and unresponsive at the end of the day, even when nothing went awry. He reaches out to touch the smooth edge of Marty's tablet, indicating a desire to see it for a moment, and when it's handed over, he studies it thoughtfully, first getting used to the feeling of it in his hands, and carefully avoiding touching the screen until he's determined how the keyboard likely functions, slowly tapping out _Diarmuid_ onto the screen. The automated voice pronounces it, and he makes a disgruntled face, which makes Marty laugh and reach for the tablet back.

"I assume that's not the proper way to pronounce it, then?" He asks via the tablet, and Diarmuid shakes his head in vehement disagreement. Of course, it's very nearly miraculous that the device works _at all_ , although it'd be even more so if it knew how to pronounce his name correctly - he does, however, appreciate the effort and acknowledgement.

He borrows two plastic bags for his birdhouses, at Marty's insistence, and leaves with the promise that he'll tell him how to say his name some other day when he's able.

 


End file.
